Page 26 of The Beach Trap

He snorts. “They told you it waslighthousekeeping?”

Yikes. That sounds ominous. This family is wealthy enough to employ two full-time staff members year-round—they’ve probably never cleaned up after themselves in their entire privileged lives.

“Imagine having a gorgeous vacation home like this,” I say, looking around, “and only visiting a few weekends per year.”

He picks up his bucket and moves down a few feet, and my eyes are drawn to his forearms, all ropy and muscular. “Believe me, you should be grateful for that. My recommendation is that you clear out when they come for the Fourth of July. I’m going to.”

I’m curious about these people—I found out that these Rooneys are the Rooneys of the eponymous underwear company, purveyors of undergarments for old and young. I’m about to ask what he knows about them when the dog bounds toward him, his tail wagging in anticipation of meeting a new friend.

I lunge for the dog’s collar, not wanting him to mess up the groundskeeper’s work, but I’m too late. The dog trots up to him, and to my surprise, the groundskeeper sets down his trowel and looks up.

“Hey there, buddy,” he says, using a totally different voice than the one he used to speak to me. He scratches the dog’s ears, neck, and down his sides. “What’s your name?”

I go blank for a moment, because I only think of him as “the dog,” and then it comes to me. “His name is Max. I’m dog-sitting him for the summer. And I’m Blake, by the way. Blake O’Neill.”

I extend my hand, then remember, too late, that I’m not wearing a bra. To his credit, the groundskeeper looks up at my face, not my chest, which means I see his face for the first time. He’s probably around my age, but it’s hard to tell since he’s sporting a scraggly light-brown beard that goes all the way down his neck. It gives me Tom Hanks–in-Castawayvibes, after the part when he knocks out his infected tooth with an ice skate blade, but before he starts having conversations with a bloodstained volleyball.

“Noah Jameson,” he says, not shaking my hand. He turns his attention back to the dog, who has rolled onto his back in a blatant attempt to solicit belly rubs. “I’m staying in the room over the garage this summer, so I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

I awkwardly return my arm to its folded position, hoping he hasn’t noticed that I’m free-boobing it. “I’m just going to—I’ll be right back. Can I leave the dog out here?”

Noah doesn’t answer; he’s too busy scratching the dog’s belly with two hands, and the dog’s eyes are closed in pure bliss.

•••

When I comeback out, dressed in my usual denim cutoffs and a tank (with a bra), ready to start on my duties in the Rooneys’ house, Noah is back to weeding the flower beds. Max is next to him, curled up in the shade created by Noah’s body.

And I have to admit that, objectively speaking, it is a rather nice body. Noah Jameson is lean and toned and tan, and when he reaches forward to pull a few weeds, I see taut muscles stretching and tensing under his T-shirt. He drops the weeds in the bucket, then takes off his gloves to scratch the dog’s head, murmuring something I can’t quite catch.

I take a few steps closer.

“Hey, Max,” Noah is saying in a soft voice. “You’re such agood boy, little Maxie, Maximus Decimus Meridius. Yes, you are, little Maxi-pad.”

I stifle a snort, but it’s too late; he looks back at me.

“What?” he says, defensive.

“You really just went fromGladiatorto sanitary napkins,” I say, laughing.

“And you really just went back to ogling.” His eyes are bright blue, peering out between the brim of his hat and the scruff of his beard. “Don’t think I couldn’t sense you standing there, undressing me with your eyes.”

“Congratulations on having such a high opinion of yourself,” I say, refusing to let him fluster me. I head toward the door that’ll lead me into the main house to get started with the cleaning.

“While you’re working in there,” he calls, “maybe you can also work on learning how to not objectify other human beings.”

“I’ll add that to my to-do list.”

“I’m not here to be eye candy for the housekeeper, you know.”

I roll my eyes. “You do realize that your facial hair looks like a small, furry animal has been shot, skinned, and taxidermied onto your face, right?”

He barks a surprised laugh, then says, “Pretty sure that wasn’t myfaceyou were staring at.”

“See you around, Noah,” I say, turning away so he won’t see my blush. I punch in the lockbox code that Kat’s friend emailed me and pull out a key. “Max, come on, buddy. Let’s go.”

The dog perks up—it’s the first time I’ve called him by his name in days, and the first time I’ve ever called him “buddy”—and trots after me, gleefully leaving Noah behind. I can’t help feeling a teensy bit triumphant.

But as soon as I walk into the house, all sense of triumph drops to the floor and shatters like an expensive crystal vase.

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